


In defense of roses

by anamia



Series: A wild space AU appears [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Censorship, Gen, Literature, abuse of lawbooks, of a poetic and seditious nature, stabby the roomba - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: “Literature is worse,” Jean Prouvaire said, frowning at the infoscreen. “When was the last time anything but a romance or a badly written thriller made it past the censors? When was the last time you read a work of politically aware fiction, or even a volume of poetry?”“Yesterday,” Bahorel said promptly. “But I assume you meant to imply that the volume in question be legal to obtain.”





	In defense of roses

 

“...and the power structure itself leads to a slow but steady deterioration of power for the people as it gets accumulated by the wealthy and influential who milk the economic desperation and petty xenophobia of the common citizens as a way to keep from being held accountable by the very people who should be most incensed by the rampant corruption of their leaders. It's awful! It's _obscene_! And no one even notices, which is incredible to me. Have we as a society grown so complacent that criminals only need to put on a suit and a microphone and be seen as heroes instead? Have the ordinary people of this system become so accustomed to being oppressed that they don't even notice the reality of their own oppression?”

Jean Prouvaire paused for breath, which gave Bossuet a moment to steal his wine glass and refill it without risking being hit in the nose by one of Prouvaire's wildly gesticulating hands. The young poet had been on his tirade for a solid five minutes, pausing only to try and drink from the wine glass, which had been empty for the last half hour. There was a certain irony in a man bemoaning the oblivious nature of the people being so unobservant himself, but Bossuet had long grown accustomed to Jean Prouvaire's peculiar contradictions.

“Of course they have,” Bahorel said. He sat with his legs resting on a desk filled with someone else's papers, carefully shined books firmly planted on a stack of legal forms, a deliberately crafted declaration of his esteem for the documents. He too held a glass, and accepted Bossuet's silent offer of a refill with a nod of thanks. “And don't think for a moment that it's not by design. It suits the power leeches to keep us unthinking and unaware. The problem we should address is not why the people fail to notice the abuses of power happening under their noses and rather how to go about changing their perceptions. Personally I lean towards disrupting traffic and redistributing resources to those who need them most, but I will hear arguments for defacing public buildings and singing rude anthems.”

Prouvaire laughed and took another drink from his glass, seeming surprised to find it full once again. “Why not all at once?” he wanted to know.

“Why not indeed?” Bahorel agreed. He shifted to a slightly more comfortable position, uncrossing his legs only to recross them again the other way, and turned to look at Bossuet. “You've been awfully quiet,” he said. “It's unlike you. What's on your mind?”

“Oh, nothing terribly world-shaking,” Bossuet said with a shrug. There being only one chair in Bahorel's superior's office, and that being occupied by Bahorel himself, Bossuet stood leaning against a bookshelf. Bahorel had decreed that the best use of lawbooks was as coasters, and so the shelves themselves were festooned with bottles and glasses in various states of emptiness, at least until Bahorel's superior returned from their vacation. “I was simply thinking that perhaps the real reason people have lost their aptitude for questioning orders is because no one presents them with a model of how to do so. A hallmark of sentience is the plasticity of the brain, as we all know by now, and our leaders are without peer when it comes to nourishing the brains of their people in such a way as to create precisely the outcome they most desire, which is to say complacency and frustration. How do you create a society content to look no father than their own pocketbooks? You hold up a portrait and call it a mirror.” He nodded towards the infoscreen embedded tastefully into the exotic wood paneling covering the office's far wall. It currently sat inert, its power supply throttled and diverted to more useful purposes, namely the recharging of a cleaning drone that Jean Prouvaire had liberated from servitude the previous week. Bahorel, for reasons known only to himself, had attached a knife to its flat top, and it now sat tethered to a hijacked power supply, waiting for new victims. “Think on it. Our entertainment is all set in an alternate universe, one cunningly crafted to resemble ours in every superficial sense but lacking the petty miseries and misfortunes of reality. And why should it not? Would you spend your scant hours of freedom reliving the very existence you tuned in to escape? Certainly not. Entertainment as fantasy is a time honored tradition, and one that I would not dream of vilifying entirely. Entertainers work hard to bring us a moment of escape, and I cannot fault them for their work. I think we can all agree that our lives would be lessened without their dedication to their crafts.”

Bahorel, whose partner-of-an-unspecified-but-definitely-intimate-nature of several years made her living appearing in the very dramas Bossuet currently described, raised his glass in enthusiastic agreement.

“But, as with any earthly delight – and possibly any heavenly one as well; theologians contradict themselves on this point regularly – this comes at a cost, namely that those of us who enjoy the escapist entertainment so eagerly offered to us run the risk of believing them to be set in our universe, rather than the one next door. And indeed, who can blame us? To an undiscerning viewer – and who among us is always discerning? – they appear to be identical. One would think that dramas would be required by law to include some statement with each program to clear up this confusion, but alas, they are not and thus have not bothered. Of course, the fantasy falls apart the moment it is subjected to closer observation. After all, I cannot say that I am constantly surrounded by impossibly attractive people, manage to live comfortably without any apparent source of income, resolve all of my conflicts within the confines of a forty minute span of time, or learn lessons on a daily basis. Why, I have been known to go for weeks without learning a single thing!”

“You must admit, however, we _are_ uncommonly attractive,” Bahorel said. He drained his glass and reached under the desk for another bottle. Bossuet thought this one might have been pilfered from his superior's personal supply.

“Literature is worse,” Jean Prouvaire said, frowning at the infoscreen. “When was the last time anything but a romance or a badly written thriller made it past the censors? When was the last time you read a work of politically aware fiction, or even a volume of poetry?”

“Yesterday,” Bahorel said promptly. “But I assume you meant to imply that the volume in question be legal to obtain.”

“Exactly!” Prouvaire said. “The only way to nourish the soul with anything other than mass produced propaganda is to acquire that nourishment illegally. The government is starving us as truly as if they were taking our food and offering us nothing but sugar candy.”

“And is it not our duty as sentient beings to feed the hungry when we find them?” Bossuet wanted to know.

Bahorel tilted his head slightly. “Certainly it is,” he agreed. “What do you suggest?”

“Well,” Bossuet said, “we are all men of letters, are we not? You, Jean Prouvaire, sculpt words into delicate verse, and you, Bahorel, join me in the wretched study of torturing our poor language into submission in the name of legality. Surely it would not be too difficult to turn our talents to the cause of feeding the needy. And it so happens that I have a friend with the conviction and talent to spread our words to those who might want them.”

“You are suggesting we take up careers as bookwriters?” Bahorel wanted to know.

“If books are what catch your fancy,” Bossuet said. “I myself rather fancy the much maligned novella, and Jean Prouvaire, of course, breathes poetry as others among us breathe air. I meant only to suggest an intent behind any words we create, not a form.”

“And Enjolras will publish us?” Jean Prouvaire asked.

“Certainly, if we meet his standards of quality,” Bossuet said.

Bahorel tilted his head, considering this. “Enjolras,” he said. “I know that name.” He looked at Bossuet. “Tell me why I know that name.”

“Likely because he published the book of poetry you read yesterday,” Bossuet said.

Bahorel shook his head. “No, that was put out by my brother. Between us, his skill with words leave something to be desired. The things that man can do to a perfectly innocent preposition. I had to avert Jean Prouvaire's eyes from some of the more lurid passages, lest he become overwhelmed.” He sighed, taking a dramatic swig from the bottle he still held. “Still, I know that name. I will have to think on it later. In the meantime, I fully support this plan of action. Stars only know that I might as well put all this scrap to some useful purpose.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion encompassing the entire desk and its contents. “Tell your friend that I will have something for him shortly.”

“Splendid!” Bossuet said. “Prouvaire? Do you approve of this idea?”

Jean Prouvaire did not answer. When Bossuet looked over at him, he found the young man bent over a datapad, scribbling furiously with a stylus that had magically materialized in his hand.

“I think we can assume that he does,” Bahorel said, smiling fondly.

Bossuet readjusted his position against the bookshelf and pulled out a datapad of his own, borrowed from the office supply room months ago and never returned, and began determining how best to go about proposing to a man whom, in truth, he barely knew that they engage in acts of a seditious and mostly illegal nature. With a slight smile of his own, he began to write.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is an allusion to the song/poem/concept 'Bread and Roses'. It seemed fitting for the Romantic Poetry side of the Amis.


End file.
